


Don't Pay The Ferryman

by Varon



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, Hades Arc, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3436802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varon/pseuds/Varon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hades & Persephone Greek Mythology AU. </p><p>Bard is the son of Demeter and Zeus. When Hera takes exception to Demeter's affair with Zeus, it is Bard's children who pay the ultimate price. Demeter halts the coming of spring in retaliation and Bard strikes a deal with Thranduil, son of Hades and de facto ruler of the Underworld for the return of his children's souls to the world of the living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Spring Dies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bard_ofesgaroth](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bard_ofesgaroth).



It began in the dead of winter, when the wrath of Hera reached a new height. Demeter’s son had been hidden for so long, she had forgotten the danger that rode above him, had failed to warn him of what could yet come to pass. Zeus in drunken stupor revealed the presence of Bard, a youthful god of spring and renewal, to his ever jealous wife in the midst of a fight whose details hold very little impact on the result of that one singular grain of truth. Bard’s role had been an essential one to the replenishing of the land for so long that to destroy him would cause an increasing demand on the gods whom Hera favored - and though she often claimed in the ebbing of her rages that she had been too beside herself to think clearly, the reality was that she calculated every retaliation to the finest of details.

Yet even the most well planned caper can disintegrate upon one’s very fingertips if one single aspect of the design fails. Hera planned for a singular eventuality, to punish Zeus by destroying the line of Demeter and leaving her and her son barren as the fields of winter. To place them both as the end of their lines, so that neither could carry Zeus on as only she had right to do. The children of the youthful god had yet to take dominions for themselves, youth of mortal blood as they were it would hardly be necessary in any case. The loss of them would cause no ripple in the power and politics of Olympus or the land as far as she could foresee and so it was with little care that she laid the order for the three demigods to be eradicated from existence.

Things went mostly according to plan; the children were killed and the curse she had set forth upon Demeter and Bard sowed itself within their bodies to lay waste to the seeds of their continued line. Demeter knew immediately that the fall of her grandchildren was the result of Hera’s wrath and in her grief, explained to her son that the fault of their deaths fell upon herself. Wracked by anguish, her beautiful son tried in vain to raise his children from the dead as he would flowers and trees in spring. Yet no matter how much of himself he poured forth, no matter how long his hands held their small cold ones within his own, there was nothing to be done. Neither of his gifts would work - his hands could not call them to spring forth any more than his fair hair could seal the wounds upon their tiny forms. He was forced to bury them in tatters, and the loss stole away the life of his beloved.

Bard could not bear the strain as Hera had predicted and Demeter did not take her punishment with grace. Bard did not wave away the deaths of his little ones, his wife, and carry on his duties - the sole reason for keeping him alive in the first place. Instead he hid himself away at his mother’s command and worked with her to find a way to raise his small family from the depths of the Underworld. The winter of that year was long and harsh upon the people before Olympus noted that spring had yet to come. Bard’s grief left him deaf and blind to the people, so driven was he to find a way to raise the demigod dead that he lost all awareness of his role to raise the flora from the snow. Yet it was Demeter who was more deliberate, cajoling, bribing and blackmailing the other spring deities into staying their hand for a time until finally Zeus bore himself down upon them and demanded answers.

The spirits of spring knew little beyond what Demeter had driven them to do - or rather, not do. As Zeus challenged his one-time lover to explain herself, Bard found at last a key to what he sought. A doorway to the Underworld was located in a meadow he knew - a meadow he often woke in the wake of winter’s end, or placed to rest at winter’s dawning with but a touch of his hand. As Zeus uncovered the price of Hera’s wrath, Bard raced to the meadow with the words of summoning falling from his lips and burning his tongue with cold. His lips were numb by the time he arrived in the meadow, his lungs aching from the too cold air, but the fire in his heart kept him warm as a deal was made between Zeus and Demeter for the return of spring, in exchange for the end of Hera’s curse.

Demeter wished the return of her grandchildren, but Zeus would not yield on the matter. ‘ _The realm of the dead belongs to Thranduil, son of Hades, who is no more willing to welcome me than my brother was. It is out of my hands. The children are lost._ ’

As Zeus spoke, the winds changed and there was a chill that washed over he and the spirits of spring wholly unrelated to the cold dead of winter. Hounds bayed and the ground shook far away, the tremors reaching Zeus and the spirits with enough force to topple them to their knees as in the meadow, the force upon which Bard had called sprung forth from the ground. The black chariot of Hades, captained by his golden son and hauled forth by an enormous stag surged upward and turned itself tight in the clearing. The stag was too earthly to terrify the youthful god of spring as Hades’ infamous black mares with their furious red eyes likely would have, but there was something about the cold way in which the driver looked at him that left Bard feeling insignificant and small.

“You have forgotten your place.”

The words were as cold as the driver’s eyes as he ceased circling with his chariot in order to gaze down upon Bard. The stag’s hoof clove into the earth as it’s head bowed - whether to permit the blond bearing his reigns to better see, or to show the threat of goring to the daring spring spirit that had called them forth, Bard did not know. He opened his mouth to speak - to explain his desire - but he was waylaid by the other.

“Winter has gone too long. Souls flood the river and the underground is filled with the mourning cries of the thousands lost to famine and cold. The trees should have leaves, the ground should be tilled and yet still snow remains and the trees lay barren. Son of Demeter, she who disrupts the natural order, dares call upon me to disrupt the order further,” Bard’s heart fell at these words, realizing that this chariot driver was indeed Thranduil, the God of the Dead, and that his heart was already cold to him. “He seeks his own gain whilst the world around him withers?” Thranduil asked, tone as haughty as his features, “For what reason should such a selfish godling as you be heeded by one such as I?”

Bard’s mouth opened and closed as he fought for an argument, but in the end all he had was the same truth that had drove him this far. “My children did not deserve to die - “

“Nor did any of the men, women and children who now reside in my domain as a result of winter’s length. They would have survived had spring arrived when it was due.”

Bard had no argument for this, and the guilt was crippling. He had been so focused on his goal to raise his children, on finding something he could offer the God of the Dead in exchange for their souls, that he had lost sight of the importance of his role and kept himself blind to his mother’s actions. It was inexcusable and yet, he could not allow himself to back down after coming this far. Thranduil had answered his call and so, perhaps there was still something that he could offer.

“My mother parlays with Zeus for the return of spring,” The young god replied, his tone respectful and his words carefully chosen, “I have come to parlay with you for the souls of my children.”

“I’m listening.”

“The spirits of spring are led by my mother and they are many. My role is one that can be filled readily by another. I am the son of Zeus, as much as I am Demeter and I have gifts that could prove to be of great use to you - “

A sigh interrupted him. “You wish to offer yourself and your service to me in exchange for your children,” Thranduil concluded, “And are hoping that your bloodline as a full godling and son of Zeus will be worth the price of three half-god children whose mortal mother cannot be returned.” Bard swallowed, and nodded, but before he could say more Thranduil’s chariot was already moving, the stag shifting so as not to pierce Bard in the chest with its antler. “I have no use for selfish gods, nor do I have any desire to give Zeus reason to trouble me. You have cost many the lives of their children,” Thranduil remarked, drawing the stag to a stop so that his chariot was right before Bard. “I see no reason to return yours to you when the same cannot be done for them.”

Bard bowed his head, his fists clenching as his hair fell forth to shield his face in flaxen gold. The yellow far brighter than the pale ice of the cold king before him, the youth thought hard before meeting Thranduil’s eyes once more. “Tell me how to repent. Tell me what I need to do, and I will do it. Anything you ask, anything you require, if it is within my power I will do it.”

Thranduil raised a brow and considered this. He knew well the gifts of this young god, whose golden hair could heal land as surely as it could bone. Whose hands could put the world to sleep or revive it brighter than ever before. Like all the spirits of spring, he was tied too closely to death and renewal for Thranduil to _not_ be aware of his existence.

He had not been exaggerating when he had proclaimed the river flooded by souls. The influx was well over seventy percent of the usual death rates for this time of year, while peace reigned for the most part throughout the land. If a portion of those sous were returned, it would lessen the work his own spirits were backlogged with - those who were never meant to die in the first place and whom Lachesis had informed him had much larger threads that this prolonged winter had forced Atropos to cut short. If they used Bard as a means to the end of weaving the threads back to normal, it would be greatly beneficial.

“Your hands can call forth the dead,” Thranduil remarked, causing Bard to stiffen as he remembered all too vividly pressing his hands to Sigrid’s face, to Tilda’s, to Bain’s again and again and again to receive nothing. “And your hair can heal wounds unnatural.”

“And yet it could not heal the wounds on my children,” Bard retorted, his throat tight with grief and anger. “Nor my hands bring them back from your realm!”

“Of course not,” Came Thranduil’s smooth and unfaltering reply, “They were slain by Ares, eldest of Hera’s sons by Zeus and greatest of the Gods of War. There are none who can return the slain of Ares to the world, save perhaps myself, were I so inclined.”

Bard was uncertain what hurt him more. The realization that the black haired half-brother that had long ago spurned his offer of friendship had been the one to slay his little ones, or the cloying, aching, _desperate_ hope that Thranduil’s words brought to him. “And can I convince you to become so inclined?”

Thranduil’s reply was daunting. “When spring is brought forth, a messenger will come to you. Places you must go and winter’s slain you must revive. You will receive the full list of names so that you may see what the negligence of spring has truly wrought upon the world. Perhaps you will then learn that your dreams are not all that matter.” Bard flinched at that, but stood strong all the same. “The messenger will remain as your guide. Once the list is complete, he will take you to the underworld, where you will serve me for the duration of your children’s lives.”

Bard blanched, realizing exactly what Thranduil was doing with his command. Not only would Bard be expected to clean the mess he had helped his mother make, but he would achieve his wish at the price of himself as he had offered. He would never see them grow - would never hold them again - but they would live, and long if the lives of the demigods before them were anything to go by. In the end, Bard knew there was no choice. He could not forgive the fact that he had participated in something that had caused so much damage - it only felt _right_ to fix it with his own hands. As things were now, he would never see or hold his children again in any case. At least this way, they had hope for happiness.

“You have my word.”

“Then look to the ferryman when the river runs clear of winter’s ice.” Thranduil returned, giving Bard no chance to reply before he commanded the stag back to their realm. The doorway sealed, and Bard knew that with it, so too was sealed his fate. 


	2. His Soul Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard meets with the ferryman at the river just as Thranduil has bid him to do, and now his quest to save the souls of the long winter begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traditional writing on papyrus is done following the grains in rows meaning the writing looks like this as the scroll unfolds:  
> 
>     
>     
>     +---------------------------------------------+
>     | ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  === |
>     | ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  === |
>     | ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  === |
>     | ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  ===  === |
>     +---------------------------------------------+

As it was promised to Zeus, Demeter and the spirits of spring revived the land. The snow was washed away, the fields made fertile and the weather turned warm at long last. Bard sat at the river for weeks, waiting for the ferryman that Thranduil had promised, but the ice flow was thick and strong for some time after spring had come to pass. It was not until the ice filtered past lazily and the banks the river had washed over in its new heights were beginning to dry that Bard woke to find a barge with a shadowed figure at the stern. Clad head to toe in a black robe and cowl, the sight sent a chill down Bard’s spine.

“Charon,” He greeted, though the ferryman gave no answer in words. Instead, a pale fingered hand held out a thickly rolled papyrus, which the young god took carefully. “May I read it?” The figure inclined his head silently and Bard supposed the question was a foolish one, all things considered. He had been told there would be a list after all - how was he to know whom to bring back if he didn’t read the list itself?

Carefully unrolling the papyrus, Bard admired the carefully written names and locations at first. From top to bottom there were ten names in total, though as he opened the scroll further and further still, Bard realized the true depth of this task. The papyrus was thick enough that with ten names per row, it was likely somewhere around two to even three thousand people he was expected to return to life. Shakily, he took a breath and rolled things back to the beginning - it felt a little less daunting to simply look at the first thirty names. All of which, he noted with a jolt of surprise, were in the next town over. Peeking the scroll forward a bit, he realized that there were multiple names per location - which made sense, but also aided in making things seem, again, a touch less overwhelming.

“This may take some time, depending on how far we have to travel to complete this,” Bard pronounced, “But it must be done.” The ferryman once again greeted him with silence and so, Bard offered a bit of a shy smile. “Not much of a talker, are you?” Naturally, there was no reply. “Is there anything else I need to do?” He asked, hoping that a direct question might prompt a response and finding himself rewarded by the ferryman pointing with his pole to the boat, indicating Bard was to board.

Taking that as sign enough, Bard did as he was bid and clambered on board, glad that the boat seemed steady and not prone to swaying. He was blissfully unaware of his companion’s adjustments to keep the boat as still as possible as he climbed in, though when they pulled from shore he found a concern. “Am I supposed to sit with my back to you?” He asked, turning to look around and finding himself rewarded by a push from the dry end of the pole, indicating he was to face forward. “Oh - alright,” He could take a hint, and opted to fall quiet after that.

As the shore drifted past, Bard attempted to keep himself entertained by marking the things they went by. At first it served well enough, but he grew bored of fields and herds, rocks and bubbling water after perhaps an hour. The silence was cloying at him, so finally he broke it once again. “You know, it occurs to me I should have brought more provisions.” All he had was a bag with food to last a week if he kept it well, and a well worn travel cloak. To his surprise, the pole came into view again and tapped the black covering at the bow.

“Oh,” Bard twisted back to smile at his silent companion, “Well that is helpful.” It was eerie the way the other refused to speak, and the darkness that shrouded his face beneath the cowl seemed unnatural. After a moment he finally asked, “Will you not speak or show your face?”

This time the other simply shook his head - though it was as clear as everything else he had done, Bard couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern over what it might mean. Was the Charon here to guide him - or to judge him? Swallowing a bit, Bard faced forward again and offered quietly, “I know that my grief is no excuse for my negligence. To be honest a part of me is very glad of this opportunity to at least right some of it. I never…I never considered the long term implications of an extended winter. It was a foolish oversight, but ignorance is no better than grief. I only hope I will not fail.”

His hands tightening on the scroll, Bard sighed and added firmly, “Not just because of the bargain, but because these people - they’re gone because of my blindness. If I can’t bring them back…” He remembered Thranduil’s assurance - that it was the fact his children had been slain by Ares that caused his power to fail - but holding this scroll, with literally thousands of names, granted an enormity to his guilt he had never anticipated. He didn’t know what he would do if he touched them - learned the faces that went to these names - and felt only cold in return as he had with his children. Yet, even as he thought of admitting it, he realized with a sinking terror that it wasn’t true.

He did know what he would do.

Bard would keep trying. He would go to every single name on this list, commit every single face to his memory as he failed each of them in turn. He would reach the end and know them, their names and their homes, their faces and the cold of their skin that he himself had placed upon them. Perhaps Thranduil thought he would quit, would abandon his punishment, but Bard knew he would not - could not - allow himself that luxury. He’d killed them - or at least allowed his mother to force them into death by freezing spring in its tracks. The very least he could do was learn their names and faces, even if he learned he could not bring them back.

“Is it selfish to hope I will not fail?” He wondered, knowing his companion would not answer but wishing for another to hear his thoughts on the matter. If Charon was to judge him, then he would surely need to know him, after all. “I cannot tell, if I wish to succeed because it is right, because these people deserve the life that was stolen from them, or because I wish to ease my own guilt for allowing it to come to pass. I would like to think it is the former, but I cannot deny that success…would make what I have done hurt a little less.”

His companion offered no solace or comfort, which Bard supposed was for the best. He didn’t feel he deserved either just yet. Hugging the scroll to his chest, Bard lowered himself further in the boat until he was able to lay down for the most part. Grabbing his blanket from his bag, he folded it into a pillow and convinced himself to sleep. Stress and emotional tumult made the task easier than he anticipated, and the subtle sway of the boat as Charon towed them along soon lulled him into a deep slumber.

It was a jolt that brought Bard back to the realm of the living, and he sat up with a start as he saw that the sun was dipping below hills he was barely familiar with. “Where…are we?” He asked as his companion left the boat and hauled it - and Bard! - further up the shore. Quickly, Bard bailed out, soaking his ankles in water as he helped shove the boat along until it was clear of the water. Charon silently peeled back the cover on the boat to reveal two bags easily double what Bard was carrying. Mutely, he aided Bard in strapping on his, before strapping his own in place and motioning for Bard to help him set the boat against a stone.

“Will we be coming back for - “ The boat had hands - or rather, hands reached from the ground as Charon’s pole struck Bard’s chest and pushed him back as the ferry was hauled underground by grasping ghosts. “Well,” He managed after a moment, “That’s…convenient.”

Charon answered by pointing to a path with his pole and setting off. Before Bard’s eyes, the pole shifted in form to a simple walking staff, and the blond godling shook his head a little before following, wondering what other magic items Charon had hidden.

Helios’ chariot disappeared at last below the rise of the hills, and took the paltry warmth of spring with it. Bard did not speak of it, trusting Charon to lead - and so it was that they found a place to settle and camp in the lingering quiet between them. To Bard’s surprise, Charon carried an oil slicked skin in his bag that with proper propping, formed into a handsome lean-to that they both could settle beneath. Bard watched the set up closely so his companion would not have to tend to this every night, before settling in beside him and offering Charon food from his pack. A white hand raised, indicating no food was wanted, though when Bard went to eat he was surprised by a tap to his wrist.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, as Charon took the bread and halved it, “Oh, so you were hungry,” He surmised, before accepting his half - only to watch Charon set the other half back in his pack. It took him a moment, then, “Portioning?” A nod, and Bard settled back to eat before asking, “How far is it to Trikala?” His companion held up a hand and made a gesture, indicating at least five days. Bard nodded then, glad Charon had warned him to watch his food intake, and laid down to sleep even as he wondered why the ferryman didn’t eat as well.

The following day, Bard found Charon’s oath of silence had not faded in the night. By midday, his feet were sore, the back of his neck was covered in sweat, and he was half convinced that Aphrodite had also taken issue with him, for he felt cursed by the love of the small biting insects that plagued him.

“Charon!” The plaintive call had his companion stop, and presumably look back at him if the shadow of his cowl was any indication, “Can we stop a moment please?” A pause, “Well, I suppose we already have,” He grumbled, before taking a seat and rubbing at the back of his neck, his hair sticking to his fingers, “Are we going uphill?” He asked, more for an excuse for noise than any expectation of an answer.

The ferryman came over to him and rested his pole - or rather, his staff - against a nearby rock before slipping behind Bard and taking hold of his hair. The young god was so startled that he jerked forward in alarm and looked back, his companion’s hand steady enough on his shoulder that he relaxed a little. “Careful,” He knew Charon wouldn’t tell him what he wanted, so he explained, “My hair can only heal if I’m attached to it, you know. If any gets torn out, it reflects Demeter rather than Zeus.” Meaning, of course, that the thick sun-gold hair would become brown as chestnut trees if it was sheared off.

Charon simply indicated he turn around, so with a slow breath, Bard placed his trust in Thranduil’s guide and sat stiffly as hands worked through his hair. The pulling was vaguely familiar, and when a fat pleat plopped over his shoulder he realized that the ferryman had braided it to help him keep cool. Running his fingers over it in surprise, Bard smiled up at his companion. “Thank you - I suppose we’d better keep on then.”

They stopped again for a meal, and again for relief of it, before carrying forth until Helios once more hid from sight and Selene came to light. Again Charon set the tent, though Bard helped by handing him the tools. Charon refused food and Bard fell asleep with the awareness that Charon kept watch throughout the night, and the distant wondering of where he found the energy. The following morning, Charon took out his braid and set it again, before they broke fast and set out once more.

This routine continued, with Bard occasionally breaking the quiet with song or chatter that fell upon seeming deaf ears. It was on the fourth day that Charon pulled him from stepping unwittingly into a nest of snakes. On the fifth, Bard asked how much farther they had to go and Charon pointed at him before holding up two fingers.

“I’m slow enough we need two more days?” He guessed, and Charon nodded. Something about the darkness seemed to lift - and though Bard saw nothing, he somehow got the sense that Charon was smiling at him. He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry,” He murmured, but Charon merely shook his head and tapped his chest, where the scroll lay hidden. Uncertain, the spring god guessed, “It’s my quest, so, my pace?” Charon inclined his head, and Bard sighed. “Alright,” He didn’t really know what else to say - and was a little unsure he wanted to see what Charon would indicate next - and chose to lay his head down for rest.

The ferryman was right - on the sixth day, they could see Trikala’s lights as they went to rest.

And on the seventh, they reached the trenches outside the city that held the dead.


End file.
